


Grace (it was such a mess)

by littlelionlady



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: But not for sexy reasons, Fluff, Gaby and Illya are hot for tats, Gaby gets shot, Getting Together, Implied Smut, It's All About the Intimacy, Mission Fic, Missions Gone Wrong, Multi, Napoleon spends most of this fic half or completely naked, OT3, Post-Canon, Spies, Spies & Secret Agents, Suits, Tattoos, explicit violence, fluff and implied smut, lots of blood, okay some sexy reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:33:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22607062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlelionlady/pseuds/littlelionlady
Summary: Napoleon was not a shy man about his appearance, but he was almost always covered, in some way. His suits, Gaby realised, were like armour for Napoleon. They were a mask he could put on to be a thief and a spy. And in the brief year they had worked together, sometimes Napoleon would become comfortable with taking pieces of that mask off.And other times, it was simply stripped from him.The underneath though? That's the part Gaby and Illya can't take their eyes off.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller
Comments: 13
Kudos: 207





	Grace (it was such a mess)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by and written for [Darkest_Sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkest_Sun) and Andrew. 
> 
> WARNING: There is a graphic depiction of a violent act here. It is gory. 
> 
> Title from _Grace_ by Florence + the Machine.

_“This is my skin. This is not your skin, yet you are still under it.” - Iain Thomas_

Napoleon was not a shy man about his appearance, but he was almost always covered, in some way. His suits, Gaby realised, were like armour for Napoleon. They were a mask he could put on to be a thief and a spy. And in the brief year they had worked together, Napoleon had become comfortable with taking small pieces of the mask off. 

But never his suit. 

*

When Gaby and Illya first saw them, they were visible through his thin white oxford shirt. He had left his suit jacket discarded on a couch downstairs somewhere. He had not a hair out of place despite slightly kiss-swollen lips from a botched attempt at gathering information what he called _the old fashioned way_. This all lead to a rather alarming distraction in the middle of a firefight. But here they were, running and ducking and shooting and gaining what little ground they could; all the while, Napoleon’s shirt would become momentarily sheer and cling to him with exertion while his muscles bunched and released, and the patterns on his skin danced. Gaby’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and Illya’s raven-like gaze shifted focus every few seconds to Napoleon. He was beautiful. Deadly. Dangerous. Maddening. Flustering. And completely distracting. 

It was here, somewhere on the third floor, in a narrow hallway that it happened; Gaby shot the man, right in the back, severing his spine before he could punch a bullet into Illya, whose back was turned while he dismantled the bomb, tongue sticking out the corner or his mouth, casting his gaze furtively around, wanting to jump into the fray and protect his partners. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Napoleon, coiled and beautiful and resolute. But Napoleon had been too slow, and she had not seen Marcelle Gaston, who fired a shot before Napoleon could spring and snap her neck. 

Warm pain shot through Gaby’s body before she noticed the spreading bloom of blood on her clothes; the khaki of her shirt turning dark brown. Idly she wondered if she had gotten mud on her person (“How unbecoming,” she had time to muse) before the scene started to grey out at the edges. She opened her mouth to speak but no words were coming out. It hurt; it really hurt. A ripping pain at having had her insides torn open by a small piece of metal. And then Napoleon was on her; laying her down and calling for backup while Illya swept the perimeter in search of the rest of Marcelle’s men. Gaby tried to force her lips to form words, but it was painful and slow, and she _hurt._

Napoleon grabbed her wrists and made her push her hands against her stomach, adding pressure himself. Her fingers felt like they were sinking inside her as if she reached too far she would be able to find the hole the bullet made and pull; like if she reached too far, she could squeeze a hand inside her gut and touch her own heart, which was frantically pumping blood through her body and out the gash the slug had made. There were splatters of it on Napoleon’s beautiful white shirt, across his chest and up the long sleeves. Gaby watched as if in slow motion, the blood spread up and up. It had saturated up to his mid forearms before he ripped the shirt off altogether and pressed it against her midsection. 

Napoleon was frowning, his forehead creased, and genuine fear freshly reflected back to her in his eyes. She tried to reach up and smooth it away, but her arm wouldn’t do more than twitch. 

“Hurts,” she managed to gasp out.

He nodded, resolute, “I have no doubt.” 

She dragged her eyes over him, looking for somewhere else to put her focus. Silhouettes of birds flying adorned his collar bone. 

She tried to move her hand to reach up and stroke them, touch the delicate marks with her fingertips and taste their stagnant freedom on Napoleon’s skin, but her body ached too much, and Napoleon pushed her feeble attempt aside with a hand of his own. 

“Beautiful,” she whispered, tasting blood on the back of her tongue. 

“Yes,” he replied with a grimace, “You are.”

She tried to smile, but her face felt disconnected. 

The grey closed in, darkened, his face became blurry, his voice muffled, Illya’s shouts distant. 

“I’m sorry,” she heard, but she couldn’t respond. 

  
  
Waverley discovered them that night, standing at Gaby’s bedside while Illya shook and paced, and Napoleon sat and held her hand, wearing a plain t-shirt the Russian had thrown at him wordlessly. It did very little to cover them, and Waverley merely threw them a cursory glance before continuing his watch. 

He only referred to them once, gesturing blandly to Napoleon and sweeping a glance up and over his frame, “Where do you get them done?” he asked, voice giving nothing; offering no admiration or judgement. 

Napoleon didn’t look up from the floor, his head resting in his hands against his knees, “Everywhere.”

  
  
Their team was placed on leave for ten days; the boys were too useless to go back into the field while Gaby was in critical condition. Their preoccupation with her condition was making them useless at being people, let alone effective agents. Waverley huffed about it at the time, but the impressive cohesiveness of his team was nothing he could sneeze at. He would be hard-pressed to find anything better anywhere in the world; KGB and CIA included. He refused to delve deeper into _why,_ quite sure they hadn’t figured it out themselves.

Gaby was allowed to properly wake up three days after the incident. Napoleon held one of her hands and traced her heartline while Illya held the other like it was porcelain. She squeezed their fingers when she opened her eyes, and both heads shot up to meet her gaze at once. 

“Did you miss me?” She croaked. Her body _ached._ She wanted to go right back to sleep. And she wanted to scream. Instead, she opted for breathing as steadily as she could manage through her nose. 

Illya exhaled, hard and drew his sight away as a flush rose high in his cheeks. Gaby decided he would be exceptionally bad at poker and was determined to find out just how bad, _later._

She flicked her gaze over Napoleon, who had half raised himself out of his chair and was leaning over her, running a hand up her cheek and pushing her obviously matted hair out of her face. He searched it, looking for any hint of anger or distrust. He did not settle back until she told him too. 

“It’s fine Napoleon,” she whispered, wincing at a particularly spectacular throb in her lower abdomen. 

He brushed her hair back and she caught a glimpse of something dark against the pale skin of his wrist. 

She went to snatch his hand but the pain was too much and it made her gasp. Napoleon yanked his hand away. 

“I’ll get someone to help,” he muttered, standing properly and practically running from the room. 

She turned towards Illya then, and he met her gaze with a steady one of his own. She liked that about him, he was steady for someone so unpredictable. 

“What is it?” she whispered breathlessly. 

Illya shrugged, “I have not caught proper look,” he said in a low voice glancing repetitively at the door as if afraid Napoleon would catch him speaking about it. 

  
  
*

When Gaby and Illya saw them again, Napoleon was on the brink of hypothermia, shivering and blue; divested of his clothes save for his underwear in the far corner of a meat locker. They stood side by side, briefly frozen in shock at the lashings of black ink curling across his pale skin. Illya shrugged off his heavy coat and wrapped it around Napoleon’s shoulders, resisting the urge to trace the whorls with his fingertips. He removed his shoes and socks and passed the socks to Gaby to roll onto Napoleon’s feet. 

“Cowboy,” Illya smacked his face a little, “Solo, are you with us?” 

Napoleon groaned and opened his eyes briefly, lips chapped and blue. 

“Help,” his voice croaked. His head rolled back again. 

They slung his body between them and carried him out through the metal bunker, up the stairs, through the front door and into the fading sun. It was warm out; Spring in Bordeaux always was, and being on the outskirts of the city had orange and pink sunlight spilling lazily across the pavement and contrasting rather magnificently with their blue lips and purple fingernails, and the red puddles of blood splattering into the cracks and against the brickwork. Gaby imagined that if Napoleon were conscious enough to notice, he would say something to the effect of, _“You sure know how to make a man feel special, with a rescue like this.”_

But he wasn’t conscious, and bruises had already bloomed under his tattoos. Gaby didn’t know anything about them; she didn’t even know he had them. But she hoped that bruising wouldn’t damage them. She wanted to know more. 

  
  


*

  
  


The next time, Gaby watched Illya, while Illya watched Napoleon. His back and arms flexing as he dragged his body through the water, cutting across the surface of their hotel pool and barely leaving ripples in his wake. 

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Gaby whispered into Illya’s ear, her lips barely brushing against the skin on his lobe. He suppressed a shiver and averted his gaze, a blush forming high on his cheeks and eyebrows pulling down low over his eyes. He turned away from her and went back to his book, but he didn’t turn a page for twenty minutes.

He hadn’t really taken his eyes off Napoleon since Japan, when Napoleon was identified based on his tattoos, and subsequently drugged into oblivion. Gaby and Illya had stayed up with him all night to administer the anti-toxin hourly. 

They hadn’t talked about it. 

The snake around Napoleon’s right bicep carved up the back of his arm, across his shoulder and onto his upper back, mouth held open wide, teeth sharp, reaching forward to swallow the moon and bunching around and over firm, wet muscles.

*

A jacket left over the back of a chair. 

A tie on the counter. 

Shoes and socks at the door. 

A button or two undone at his throat, black shadows of those birds discernable at his collarbones. Sleeves rolled up to allow the forest wrapped around one bicep to peek out, and the tail of a mermaid to make herself known out the other. 

Gaby and Illya followed him as he paced backwards and forwards, slightly frantic and half drunk. Tension building slowly as they avoided each other's eyes. He kept turning to them, opening his mouth, and then closing it again, only to resume his pacing. 

“Cowboy,” Gaby could hear breathless amusement in Illya’s voice.

Napoleon has invited them to his suite for a post-mission drink, and when he had answered the door, it was without a jacket or shoes. He had looked mildly alarmed and Gaby was immediately drawn to the shadows under his white oxford. She wanted to peel his layers off and demand to know each one; to trace them with her fingers, to watch Illya trace them with his tongue. 

“Napoleon,” she admonished, “What is wrong?”

He turned to them with a pained expression and reached for his next button, popping it with shaking fingers. 

“You never stop looking,” he whispered, “And you aren’t afraid.” 

Illya looked stricken, called out and flighty. Gaby’s eyes were firmly pinned to where Napoleon was undressing himself. She unconsciously licked her lips. 

“Solo,” Illya sounded like he was slurring, like the words were caught on his tongue and stuck in his throat, “What are you doing?”

Napoleon peeled the oxford from his shoulders and pulled his undershirt over his head in one fluid movement. The swallows danced and the forest swayed and the sun and stars over his chest and ribs blinked at Gaby and Illya. 

Gaby’s gasp was small. Illya sucked in a breath and held it. Napoleon refused to meet their eyes. He held his arms out and turned slowly, to show them his back, his arms. With his back still turned, he took off his belt. Gaby smirked and glanced away briefly to watch Illya gulp. 

“He really is beautiful,” she whispered to him. He didn’t look away from the half-naked statue in front of them. 

“I’m not,” she heard Napoleon say. She turned back to him, and saw his head turned in her direction, “I’m not.” 

She stood and walked towards him, hand held out, leaning towards him slowly, waiting for him to flinch. When her fingers finally reached his skin, he sighed. She felt like she was on fire as she traced the snake across his back and down his arm. She felt like she was burning up, and empty all at the same time. She felt too far from him, even as her skin brushed his. 

“You are,” she said. 

Illya’s warmth radiated behind her. Napoleon turned in front of her. 

“How long?” Illya’s deep voice sounded breathless, his eyes surely raking over Napoleon’s exposed form. 

“Since I joined the army,” he said, “Since I was stationed,” he pointed to the swallows, “One for each of my friends. They all died in my arms.”

He held his wrist out to them, a moon and a star so fine they looked drawn on with a pen, “For you,” he whispered, blush high in his cheeks. He wouldn’t look at them. 

Illya reached around Gaby and grabbed Napoleon’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. 

“Beautiful,” he said. 

Napoleon’s lips twitched up. 

*

"My mother told me that grace," Napoleon whispered into the skin of Gaby's shoulder, "is help by the hand of someone else."

Illya sighed at the brush of Napoleon's fingertips up his side and over his ribs, tracing the shapes and patterns there. Now that he was allowed to, he couldn’t seem to stop. 

"A sweet sentiment," Gaby whispered back, pressing her lips to the top of his head. 

Napoleon made a noncommittal noise, "Being the good Irish Catholic woman that she was, I'm sure she really meant ‘the grace of God’."

Illya's lips turned up at the corners, "I'm sure she knew you struggle with asking for help Cowboy," his gravelly sleep worn voice sent lightning up both Gaby and Napoleon's spines.

“That’s why I almost wrote it into my skin,” he chucked. 

Gaby shifted up against Napoleon and stretched back to capture Illya’s lips, effectively ending the conversation. 


End file.
